"Oh, please!" she said, with a sudden weakness, again trying to release her fingers.
"I can't help it," he said, blurting out the words. "Jean, you know as well as I what it is. I love you."
The moment the words were out, he had a cold horror of what had been said. He didn't love her, not as he had said it. Why had he said it?
She remained motionless a moment, gathering her strength against the shock.
"Please let go my hand," she said quietly.
This time he obeyed. His mind was a vacuum; every little sound came to him distinctly, with the terror of the blunder he had made.
She went to the window and stood, her face half turned from him, trying to think; and, misreading her thoughts, a little warm blood came back to him, and he tried to think what he would say if she came back with a light in her eyes.
"Mr. Stover."
He looked up abruptly—he had scarcely moved. She was before him, her large eyes seeming larger than ever, her face a little frightened, but serious with the seriousness of the woman looking out.